Red: The Book of Blood
by deepthoughtz
Summary: Harry Potter died at age eleven. He didn't expect to come back. This is the story of a vampire, shunned by others, as he grows under the tutelage of the most powerful sorcerer in the world. The story of the Book of Blood. No slash, sporadic updates.
1. Prologue: In the Dead of Night

**RED: The Book of Blood**

**Prologue**

**In the Dead of Night**

The darkness had closed in by the time he woke up.

He tried to remember where he was, where he had been, why and how. Questions flitted through his brain, meaningless whispers echoing through the empty halls of his faded and tattered mind.

He tried to sit up.

Something struck him on his forehead, hard and unyielding. He could not see. He tried to breathe, but the air was stale and dry, bone dry. He gradually became aware of the hard surfaces that were touching him, encompassing him from all sides. He couldn't believe it, couldn't believe that he was back in his cupboard, because the wood was smooth metal now and whatever they said (freak, freak) and argued and called him names (should've died, should've died in the crash, good-for-nothing) they wouldn't keep him in a cage, no they wouldn't… but steel, smooth cold steel was all he could touch, and however he tried there was no lock or key or door and he tried and tried but it wouldn't give -

_Panic set in._

#

The man and the woman sit on the table, holding hands. They smile at each other, brave smiles, little smiles, fleeting smiles. Telling each other of hope in words that went unsaid. Smiling eyes that smiled too little these days.

The mirror mounted on the wall mists. They do not observe, unafraid, confident.

Shadows skitter on the glass surface. Shadows that swirl and swirl, coalesce into a shape.

Red eyes glint in the mist. Eyes that burn.

The mirror cracks.

They notice.

Finally. Too late.

Except for one.

The man dies on the porch, the green lifting him and taking him.

The white figure strides forward, two more following behind. They take the stairs.

He gasped, but the air was hot and it choked his lungs. There was no space in the cage, no room to move. He still tried, wiggling his arms and trying to force open the box. It would not give.

The breaths were coming fast now, faster as he gasped with effort. The muscles strained, sweat beading his body. The metal would not yield.

Hard, hard and dead and smooth.

He would die here, he realized suddenly. He would die here, with no air or food or water. His relatives must've put him here, in a box closed from all sides, airtight. So they wouldn't have to kill him themselves. So they wouldn't have to watch as he went blue and black and started to rot.

Cowards.

Blood began to run from the cut on his forehead.

#

The woman pleads, begs. Begs for her son's life.

A promise is a promise, and words are power enough. Words, the means to meaning and feeling, and the feeling is weighed down even as green takes the mother away.

Her screams hang heavy on the air, her power. The three do not notice.

The baby cries, cries. Cries as its mother lies dead and unseeing on the floor. Cries unknowing that he would not see her again.

The curse shatters the air, a stench of burning hatred that gleams as fiery a green as Death's own wings.

And two powers battle, death and love, hatred and sacrifice. The room shatters under their power. The green Death uncoils, coils again. The white figure screams.

#

It was funny.

He'd become quite used to the scoldings, over the years. The beatings. They were all that he had known. He had understood the truth - the truth that there were two kinds of people.

People like Dudley and Uncle Vernon, who were big and red-faced and liked to hurt.

And people like Polkiss and Aunt Petunia, who watched and sometimes joined in the fun.

For those like him, why, Uncle Vernon had said it for him, hadn't he? They weren't people at all.

They didn't count.

They had never counted.

He always had hoped, though. Hoped for a little… just a little… he didn't know what to call it. He didn't want toys and video games, like Dudley did. He didn't want to laze about and leave the breakfast to Aunt Petunia.

He wasn't very clear what he wanted, really. But he knew it wouldn't have cost them much.

Bastards.

They had never wanted him. Never.

He was a fool to hope. There was nothing to hope for.

Not for him.

The panic wasn't there anymore, he realized suddenly. He was cold, the sweat on his body freezing into icicles.

He wasn't going to die here.

Not so easily.

He pushed.

The steel was hard and dead. It would not give.

Neither would he.

There was a peculiar smell in the air, he thought. He sniffed, and thought blood. It was familiar to him, the familiar smell that always came after uncle Vernon had come home drunk and angry, or Dudley had been feeling particularly vicious.

Air burned through his lungs, choking him. His hands and feet were numb in the cold. He pushed.

The steel buckled.

Disbelieving, he pushed again, his hands mapping out the bend in the metal. It gave away further.

Something rose within him then, something in his gut, roaring and writhing, and he was snarling in the darkness, his voice hoarse and raw as it shouted, roared, and that something was twisting within him, twisting him, and his hands and feet were kicking and punching with all he had to give, and then

air

Dirt rained down on him, gravel and muddy dirt that went into his eyes and nose and mouth. He couldn't see, but there was air, and he was free. He pulled himself up, up and over.

The shadowy night welcomed him, a faint breeze running through his hair. He dropped down on his knees in exhaustion.

The white marble slab was in front of him. He squinted at it, looked around. Found the quiet graveyard.

Oh my god -

The air shifted behind him, and he tried to stand, whirling around. Pain lanced through his chest. Burning, sizzling pain that shattered his reason and numbed his body and he was screaming and screaming as something in his gut snarled…

Somebody caught him as he sagged down. Laid him on the ground, gently. A touch jolted a fresh wave of pain in his back, but he could scream no longer. His voice didn't work. He tried to move through the haze of pain, couldn't.

"I'm sorry, boy."

It was a whisper, but the words were clear to him in the silent night. His vision cleared, slowly. The pain was receding now, leaving him nothing. He couldn't feel his legs anymore. He couldn't feel anything.

If this was death, then… then he wished they got something worse.

The man was black, tall and black and wearing black sunglasses. He tried to speak, couldn't. Something, he saw, was jutting out of his chest; a long and thin wooden stake.

No. No. No. Things like this didn't happen. They didn't.

"I'm sorry, boy." The man said again. "Maybe you didn't know, right? I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Believe me, this is for your best."

No it isn't, he wanted to shout. It isn't. I don't want to die. His gut was cold, and silent, and it burned.

I never want to die.

The man bent down, and jerked out the stake in one vicious motion. "I'm sorry," he swallowed. "You can't imagine how sorry I am, boy. If you were older… you would've known. You would've understood."

"Don't -" he croaked. "Don't."

"What?" The man bent down so he could whisper in his ear.

"Don't call me boy."

And he jerked his hands up, one last effort, and his blood was dry and fire within him, his strength faltering but enough to take the man's throat and squeeze

The white wizard flees, his body reduced to a mass of worthless dust, his spirit broken and spent. And yet old magicks, old ties anchor him to the living, and he flees. Flees to take shelter in the darkness. Vows revenge.

A wand clatters to the floor, thirteen inches, yew and phoenix feather. It smokes and smolders. One of the followers picks it up, whimpering, disbelieving. Vanishes within his robes.

The other remains. Sniffs the air, cautious. Something keeps his attention.

He strides forward, to the baby. The baby, crying in earnest. He smiles, and shows his fangs.

Picks the baby up, cutting a little on the smooth neck, the soft and yielding flesh parting beneath the sharp incisor.

Begins to scream.

"You bastard," the man gasped out, choking. "You little bastard!"

He tried to twist the neck, his mind awash with fire. Blood dribbled from the man, from where his nails had scratched and dug deep. The smell pulled him, down and down, and his vision was blurred with red. Blood red.

His tongue flicked out, tasting the smell. It was sort of weird, he thought in a corner of his mind, sort of - like smoke and water and something else he hadn't noticed before -

The man was struggling still, and winning, he could feel, the weight and pressure increasing against his small body. He tried harder, but the man had pulled a hand free at last, and another stake was glinting silver in the starlight. He tried to stop it, but the man was too big. Too strong. And he was weak, weak. His hands were numb from the cold.

The stake came down as he watched, slow, so slow. Down and down and down. The stars twinkled overhead.

He wanted to close his eyes.

Words rang out in the silence, too fast for him to understand, yet the meaning clear somehow. His ears rang as the stake missed its target and drove deep into the earth. The man jerked, twisting away from him to see who it was.

Someone else stood, not ten paces away. The moon and the stars twinkled on his robe. He could make out few features in the darkness, save a long white beard that was tucked into the old man's belt.

He now raised up a stake, wooden. Harry flinched, knowing it was another one who would kill him. He wasn't saved. Not really.

The black man snarled like a cat, and jumped towards the old man with blurring speed.

One word. One gesture with the raised stake.

And then the world itself was fire.


	2. Chapter One: Spinner's End

**Red: The Book of Blood**

_**Chapter One**_

**Spinner's End**

It was evening when he opened his eyes.

The room was dingy and shabby, the walls a colour that had probably been white a decade or two ago, a single portrait of a woman clothed in an old Victorian dress hanging over the wall in front of him. There were no windows in the room, a single door about five to six feet to his left. His bed hugged the right wall, an old wooden job that felt sturdier than it looked, the linen sheet over it a shocking spotless white that made a remarkable contrast against the aura of old age and neglect that permeated the room. Even the air positively _reeked_ of age and dust and – he frowned – faintly of rubbish and mud. There wasn't a clock anywhere, and the only source of light in the room was a small yellow bulb that glowed over his head. But he knew it was evening, about five. And he knew every nook and cranny of the almost bare room after a glance around or two.

That did not seem remarkable to him, somehow. He frowned, agitated. He didn't know where he was. And that stirred something in him, a feeling of danger and apprehension, and a _need_… a need to know, something faintly moving within him, a need to… there was danger, somewhere, within the house. _Danger_. He knew he didn't like danger. It reminded him of something… things… where was he again?

There was something wrong with the room.

He frowned again, nervous but not knowing why, and not liking it. The room was almost bare, except the bed he was sitting on and a small bedside table and a couple of bookracks. He squinted at the books, the harsh glare of the light ruining his vision, and then it struck him.

Where were his glasses?

It was peculiar… he knew his eyes weren't much good without those. And yet here he was, easily reading the names written on the spines.

The names weren't very heartening, and his heart plummeted. He cautiously got up and took out the books, one by one.

_Potions: The Subtle Art,_ he read on cautiously, _Moste Potente Potions, The Various Magical Plants Found on the British Isles, A Guide to African Herbs, Wolfsbane…_ his head was spinning.

He was in the house of a nutjob. No doubt about it.

He moved to the other shelf, the curiosity not letting go of his hands. The books there were even weirder, if that was possible. _The Dark Arts: A Prelude, Battling the Darkness: A Study of the Wizard Mind, A Thousand and One Potent Hexes & How to Counter Them, An Auror's Guide to Strange Situations, Dueling Strategies, The Seven Classes of Dark Charms, Chaining the Beast: A Study on Dark Creatures…_ the names went on and on, meaningless names that spoke of somebody with a very sick or a very twisted mind.

He couldn't understand how anybody could believe all this stuff was genuine and keep these 'potions' and 'curses' books as if they actually meant something. He looked over the room again, noticing the locked door.

There wasn't any harm in it, was there? Just a little look.

Just one.

He didn't know why he was breathing heavily. He lifted up a thick tome, this one simply titled _Curses_, the letters emblazoned in gold over the brown smooth cover that he somehow thought was fur. The book was lighter than it looked, he thought, and thumbed open a page.

And froze.

The picture on the page was revolting. It showed a woman, naked and bound with ropes on a stone slab, a red circle drawn on the ground around her. It was glowing.

The woman in the picture was moving.

_The whole fucking picture was fucking moving_

He couldn't move. His muscles seemed paralyzed.

This wasn't happening. This couldn't have been happening.

But the woman was _still_ moving, and screaming, he knew, even though no sound came from the twisting mouth, and now cuts were appearing on her flesh as if _by magic_, cuts on her arms and legs, spitting blood, slowly, slowly. Cuts started on her smooth abdomen, deep eager gashes that welled red. Blood was pooling around her, red warm blood, and he couldn't help but stare and he didn't know why but he so wanted to smell taste touch so much –

_Behind him!_

He dropped the book, didn't think, didn't stop to consider what he was doing.

He whirled, instinctively leaning down, putting pressure on his toes, all his momentum gathered to one smooth merciless vector and _lunged_.

The intruder who he hadn't heard coming in (enemy, enemy, _fight!_) took a step back in the face of the sudden charge. He followed through, no longer thinking, all consciousness suspended and all his uneasiness and fear melding into a lethal stroke. His hands shot up, instinctively curled like claws, and slashed at the enemy (_kill!_) who swerved sideways to avoid him. He pulled himself down, almost into a kneeling position, cancelling the forward momentum as quick as he could, and shot up, his right palm rigid and blurring and all his body and mind seeking that final stroke.

Air slammed into him, a violent gust of wind that came from nowhere and slammed into his right side. He lost his footing, compensated, (_nobody else, empty room_) gathered himself in a fraction of a second to follow through.

The enemy raised a stake, and he knew he was lost.

The wood _burned_ at him, even from the distance. He didn't know how or why.

He was lifted into the air and slammed against the wall, the man (_black hair, black eyes, angry frown, smell of grease, smell of singed cloth, smell of __**blood**_) raising up the stake and mumbling a word or two that _burned_ his ears. The words shaped themselves in the air, fashioning themselves into ropes of light that tightened around him.

"Nosing into other people's property, Potter?" The man sneered, no sign of even a heavy breath after all that he had done… whatever he had done. He tensed as the man came closer, something within him making his muscles strain to tear up the glowing ropes. The sense of danger hadn't diminished. But there was nothing he could _do_, and he tried to tell himself that. Better to wait and free himself at the first chance.

Not that the man looked like he was someone who went around giving too many of those. Onyx black eyes gleamed at him, dangerous, angry. The words, when the man uttered them, were a low hiss. "Thief… ungrateful wretch… just like your father, Potter. Just like your father. And worse. Worse."

He blinked.

There were a thousand questions cluttering his mind, questions that he tried to subdue. _This man had known his father._

But even that wasn't the greatest shock.

Potter. His name was Potter.

No. It _had_ been Potter. Once. _Once_. He hadn't remembered much till now, after waking up here.

The last night rushed back.

When the memories stopped at last, he found himself curled up on the floor, in a little pool of sickly brown vomit. His head was pounding, and his vision was blurry again, though not what it had been before… before last night.

He tried not to think about it. Something had happened last night. Something.

He tried hard not to think, and looked up from the floor to see the black-eyes man observing him. He wasn't sneering anymore, but that was hardly reassuring.

He had attacked that man before, he knew that. But he didn't want to. Not anymore.

He didn't know what he wanted. Not anymore.

Maybe the man knew what had happened to him. Maybe he could find out.

The man waved the stake at him, and he flinched. The vomit around him _vanished_, smell and all.

He wasn't surprised. He felt as if there were no surprises for him. Not anymore.

"Where am I?" He asked, his voice raw and hoarse. His throat felt damaged, from screaming too much, he thought, and coughed to clear it. It hurt. The man didn't answer. Instead moving his stake (_wand,_ he corrected himself, the man was a magician of some sort, a fraud or maybe more than that) and mumbling nonsense words that nevertheless felt as if they meant something. Latin, he thought. Nothing happened though, and the man frowned, looking at the wand and then at him.

"Excuse me," he said after the man had stared at him for what felt like a full hour, "was something supposed to happen?"

The man sighed, an uncharacteristic sound. His skin looked shallow and pale in the yellow light. _Like a Vampire,_ he thought, and pushed the thought away. The man was just a street magician, a charlatan. Nothing more.

"Yes, Potter, something was supposed to happen," the man informed him, his voice with a sharp edge. "Except it didn't. Well, nothing that I can do about it now." He was talking to himself, apparently. "Nothing I can do, damn it… Albus will have to sort this all out." The man apparently came to a decision. "What do you _think_ happened to you, Potter?"

"I…" he fumbled. _I was bundled into a coffin by my relatives and buried in a graveyard. Then I smashed it open to get out after I woke up._ _Then somebody drove a wooden stake through my chest but I didn't die. But I was going to, except an old man with along white beard he kept tucked into his belt came and spoke words of fire, and then I woke up._ "I don't know… Sir."

The man sneered. "I suppose that is what you usually do, get into troubles when you cannot even imagine their scope. Except," he smiled humourlessly, "this time 'trouble' does not _begin_ to cover it."

"What happened to me, sir? Do you know? … Can you tell me?" He asked cautiously, sitting up. He couldn't think… didn't think all that he remembered could've happened. Maybe all this was a trick… but this man _knew._

"Get up, Potter." The man said. "Get on the bed, You aren't in any condition to move around, though I suppose there isn't anything short of physical restraints that I can do to stop you." He returned the wand to his sleeves with a casual practiced flick as Harry hobbled to the bed. "The night is coming. Someone will be here soon to see you."

"Someone?" He asked cautiously.

"He is a very important man, Potter. And very powerful in certain areas, shall we say… you will know what I'm talking about soon enough." The man gestured at the bedside table, and Harry turned, jumping a little at the steaming mug that he _knew_ hadn't been there a moment ago. "Drink up, Potter. It'll be good for your health."

"Is this a trick?" Harry asked cautiously, not moving his eyes from the direction of the table. The mug sat on it innocently, the brownish contents steaming as if just from the kettle.

The man chuckled mirthlessly. "Far more than that, boy. Far more than that. _Potter._" There was something in the tone that made him look back to the shallow face. "What you did to me," the man said quietly, "what you _tried_, Potter, I suggest you do not try on the man who's coming to see you. He saved your life, or whatever else you call your pathetic ungrateful existence. You try it on him, boy, or on me – or anyone else, for that matter, while you're in this house – and there will not be enough of you left to bury. I promise you that, and I suggest you remember it."

He tried to act indignant, tried to say that he'd been _imprisoned_ here, that he couldn't have known – but there was something in the man's eyes that robbed his voice. He nodded, weakly.

"Drink that," the man said, and left through the door, shutting it. Harry leaned back on the bed, closing his eyes.

The next time someone opened the door, he was lying on the bed and breathing evenly, snoring a little. Footsteps, sure and light, came forward, towards his bed. He lay like the dead. A soft voice spoke up. "Mr. Potter."

He knew it was useless. He opened his eyes.

He knew this man, he thought. They had seen each other before, just last night that now seemed a thousand days ago. The beard was the same, the robes. The man was old, no, _ancient_, but instead of being frail he exuded an aura of grace and confidence. He breathed in, and the air caught at his throat.

This man was dangerous. Even more than the one earlier, this man could _crush_ him to powder. He scooted backwards a little, involuntarily, then steadied himself, determined not to show any fear. He regulated his breathing and looked up at the old man's face. The skin was old and wrinkled, but the eyes behind the half-moon glasses were sharp and aware of every inch if his scrutiny. Yet they looked sad, somehow, he thought. Old and sad and kind.

He believed nothing of it.

"Mr. Potter. _Harry._" The old man said softly. "How you've grown."

"Excuse me?" He didn't want to speak, but damn it, he was curious. "Do I know you?"

Uncle Vernon wouldn't like this man, he knew instinctively. Neither would Aunt Petunia. The man was so … _abnormal_, so… eccentric, he went against their every notion of decency. _If_ the man had known him in Privet Drive, then he should've remembered. He had a good memory, his teachers had always said. An exceptional memory… especially for faces. He would've remembered.

There was another option, of course. His heart sped up. He was probably lying, but what if… _what if…_

"Indeed, Harry," the man said, as if guessing his thoughts from his eyes, "I knew you when you were little. When your parents were alive."

"You… you knew my parents." The words stuck at his throat. "You – "

"Indeed, Harry. James and Lily Potter." The man's eyes misted as if lost in old and fond memories. "They were honest, good people, Harry. I do not know how much your relatives have told you about them – "

"They said that my mother was a good-for-nothing," he hissed out, jolting the old man from his reveries. "And that my father was an incorrigible drunk."

"Ah." The old man said softly, nodding. "I thought myself uncharitable to have guessed so, but perhaps I am not. Did they tell you how your parents died?"

He frowned. "In a car crash, of course."

The man bowed his head, white hair cascading over the half-moon spectacles. "I am at fault, Harry. I am sorry."

"What do you have to be sorry for?" He shrugged. "They were driving drunk. They died. They got their just desserts." He didn't know why he was talking like this. He had always tried to protest whenever his relatives had made fun of his parents, whenever Aunt Petunia or Uncle Vernon had insulted his father and mother. But here and now, before a man who had known them, all his bitterness carefully hoarded over the years had surfaced. He knew he was hurting the man with his nonchalance, and he was in some dark and perverted way thoroughly enjoying it, even though every spoken word hurt him inside.

"Harry – I want you to listen to me." The old man said desperately, "I want you to listen. I knew your parents, and they were some of the most wonderful people I had ever known. They were honest, they helped those in need of it, and they loved each other. As they loved you." The man bent down to look at his eyes, his gaze burning with sincerity. "I want you to believe me."

He wanted to believe the man. He wanted to.

But all this was a joke. A lie.

And he wasn't stupid enough to believe in such lies. Not anymore.

"Who are you," he said, his voice steady, "and where am I?"

"You can call me Professor Dumbledore," the man straightened, his voice as disappointed as his eyes. "This a house belonging to Professor Severus Snape, whom I am sure you have seen earlier. I brought you here last night."

"You kidnapped me." He knew that wasn't the truth. But he wasn't altogether sure what the truth itself was.

"No, Harry. I saved you from certain death." The old man said patiently.

"Really? And how did you do that?" His own memories of the last night were… surreal, and he suspected that he'd been hallucinating. He needed to know what had actually _happened_.

"Harry – to understand it all, you need to know something. A secret that has been kept from the likes of your relatives for hundreds of years. A secret that is the reason behind everything that had happened to you. Everything."

"Secret?" He couldn't believe the man thought him so stupid. As if… as if he could be fooled with something like this. As if he was still a _boy_.

"You are a wizard, Harry."

He didn't say anything. His silence spoke louder than words.

"You must believe me, Harry – there are those in this world like I or your parents who can manipulate an energy beyond the comprehension of the muggle sciences. The energy is unstable, and difficult to use even for those of us, wizards and witches as we call ourselves, gifted at it… but with enough practice and knowledge we can achieve things that others can only dream of. Your parents were gifted, Harry, naturally talented even among us. And so would you have been – had the events not taken the unfortunate turn they _have_ taken."

"They were _wizards_. And you want me to believe this?" He was angry, angry beyond words. The man was mocking his parents, claiming to have known them and now mocking their memories. Talking about them as if they had been mad, had believed in this crazy magic thing. This old weak man _dared…_

_He was going to kill this man for that_

He stopped in his thoughts, startled. Where had that come from?

Dumbledore was watching his face the whole time, he discovered. The self-proclaimed 'wizard' nodded to himself, as if he had just received some confirmation. "Harry," he said again, urgently, "you _have_ to believe me. You are on a path you should never have taken – a path that should have been closed to you. If you keep on – you will find nothing, nothing but loss. _You must not!_"

He looked the man full in the eyes, beyond simple anger. "_I. Believe. Nothing. You. Say._"

The old man exhaled, closing his eyes. They were glinting with anger and determination when he opened them again. "I had believed this to be unnecessary, Harry, but you leave me little choice."

"What are you going to do?" He hissed back, not caring as the old 'wizard' snatched his right hand with surprising speed.

"If you would not place your faith me, Mr. Potter," Dumbledore said quietly, "then I shall have to try whatever I can to garner that faith. I am sorry, but we have little time, and I see no other way that would leave you undamaged. Well," the old man amended, "relatively undamaged."

"_What?_" Panic was rising in him now, real panic that clogged his senses like a shroud of fog.

"You are a Vampyr, Mr. Potter, a wizard _turned_ into a Vampire," the old man said as Harry tried to snatch his hand back. "As such you have certain senses… senses that no doubt recognize me as a being of power and urge you to distrust me. I think this is the only way I can gain your trust on such short notice… night is coming. Your first True Night, and you must trust me to do the needful now or lose yourself forever."

"Leave – me – alone!" Harry shouted. Dumbledore didn't let go.

"Names have power, Mr. Potter," the old man continued, "names, and all they entail – the identification of _self_. As a magical being, they are far more important to you than us pure wizards – and the only way a true magical being can trust someone is when it knows him. So I think you should hear my name, Harry. My _true Name_." His voice was changing, gaining cadence, notes that hurt Harry's ears, sounds that should never have existed.

"_My Name, Harry Potter, is __**Albus – **_"

White light struck at his insides, burning him, burning his gut and streaming liquid lava through his heart. He screamed, but the _voice_ was there, still there, echoing mercilessly over his screams.

"_**Percival – **_"

His ears bled from the broken notes, cutting and sharp as shards of glass. The light was coming in waves, bringing with it something, some vast and terrible knowledge that shaped itself into images and sounds within his head. A little green-eyed girl was lying on the floor, the threadbare carpet stained dark with blood that had dried brown. The scene shattered into bitter snowflakes, a white field with a kneeling man on it. Dead bodies piled on each other around him.

"_**Wulfric – **_"

Lightning seared him, black and white, his flesh melting like wax before a burning flame. The white power was _choking_ him even as it burned. A red-eyed man was standing in front of him now, laughing, laughing, even though he couldn't hear any sound over the thunder that roared in his ears.

"_**Brian – **_"

He screamed, wanting to get away from the probing voice, ready to do anything to get it. But the old man clung on, and his body felt a long way away, across and distant from the burning lands that enveloped him, white and hot as the sun. He was sitting in an office, talking to a yellow-gold-red bird that burned even brighter white to his eyes. The colour soothed his vision for a moment, a trill that quieted the raging torrent in his veins. But it was only for a moment, and the pain was there and waiting with a vengeance when the relief ended.

"_**Dumbledore!**_"

Silence.

White, mute silence that took him in its embrace, steady and calm and smooth and cold. The pain ebbed and flowed, but he was beginning to cope, he thought, after a year or so. He shivered, kept shivering, his bones still protesting and his nerves jangling with every littlest movement of his numb muscles. He looked up at the old face. Old and sad and kind.

He knew enough, now. He knew more.

Knew not to trust him in spite of it.

The man might have read his thoughts from his face, as he now knew the man might have. The eyes closed, as if in disappointment. He couldn't stop shivering.

"I have given you a gift," Albus Dumbledore said quietly. "I have given you knowledge – of myself. Of my _self_. Do you understand this?"

He understood. He nodded.

"I shall tell you what has happened, and then I shall do what is needed to be done to insulate you from the effects of your first True Nightfall." Dumbledore sighed. "I regret this course of action, and you know I speak the truth. And you know I shall always speak the truth to you. Always."

He nodded.

"You shall believe me, Harry?" There was something in the old man's eyes, his voice. A need, Harry thought. A need. For trust. To trust.

"Tell me what happened," he said quietly. "Tell me what happened to my parents."

The old eyes smiled.

And when the tale was done, and the deed was done, Albus Dumbledore had one last question.

"Harry Potter," he frowned. "Harry James Potter…"

"Except it is not, is it?" The old man smiled mysteriously.

"I don't understand."

"Names are our identities, Harry… even for a mere wizard, Names can be binding. For a magical being, much more so. You are not who you were… you have _changed_. How can the Name stay the same?"

"Then… what is my name?" Harry asked.

"That is a secret you shall have to solve yourself, I am afraid… but I know you _will_, Harry. I know you will." Dumbledore smiled.

"More puzzles…"

"You have a natural ability for those, do you not?"

"How… how do you know?" Harry asked, blinking.

"My boy… you _really _think I had never kept an eye on you? I must say I was rather proud of your accomplishments, Harry," Dumbledore said seriously. "And I _know_ James and Lily would have been."

He didn't answer, closing his eyes. All this knowledge, against what he had known and believed all his life… all of it was catching up with him at last.

He didn't notice when Dumbledore left. The night went unlike anything he could have ever imagined.


	3. Chapter Two: The Impaler's Plans

**RED: The Book of Blood**

**_Chapter Two_**

**The Impaler's Plans**

The room was cold like a morgue, bitter and biting. The air was cool and sterile, smelling of nothing. A long round table dominated the room, the fire from the torches set all around the stone walls gleaming on its aged Oak surface. Twelve figures sat around the table on ornate chairs, their faces hidden under cowls that appeared black in the gloom. All of them shifted in their chairs, as if nervous, and all of them tried not to look at the robed figure waiting at the door.

The newcomer too looked ill-at-ease, and his stance was that of a cornered and wary animal, elbows crooked at his sides, palms hidden beneath his plain black robes. His breathing was the only sound in the room except the low crackling murmur of the little fires, and the air was perfectly still except for his misty breaths. His broad shoulders were hunched together a little, as if the room itself oppressed him somehow, which would not have been a surprise for any who knew just who resided in the old stone walls. He stood stoically still, refusing to appear nervous even though he suspected that all in the room read through it as easily as through a clear glass. Twelve pairs of red eyes furtively tracked his every little gesture from under the hoods.

The still air came alive suddenly, full with the flapping sound of a hundred wings. The newcomer tried to suppress his flinch at the sound as an acrid pungent smell assaulted his nostrils in the space of a breath, but something flew at him out of the shadowy dark, something small and black that launched itself at him. He batted it away unthinkingly, his hand a blur as the palm crashed into something leathery and sent it crashing to the ground. It flopped there for a moment, then staggered up and lurched away from him into the dark shadows. The newcomer took a step back towards the door, suddenly realizing that the sound of wings have stopped and there was only that deathly silence again. But there was something else in the room now. Someone. His predatory senses recognized the threat, interpreted it into a sense of boundless terror that threatened to weaken his knees. He stood erect with only an iron effort of will, suddenly beyond mere nervousness, into a land of age-old fear where nightmares walked at your feet and spoke in angels' words. He tried to swallow, but his throat was dry and he choked. His raspy breaths misted before him, a mass of white vapour that ruined even his wolf's vision. He moved his head a fraction to the side, goose bumps pricking all over his skin, little tremors that seemed to trail their way through his flesh from the base of his spine. The dagger hidden in his belt felt hot under his palms. The room had darkened appreciably, he noticed through the fear that surrounded his senses.

The torches began to wink out, one by one.

#

Harry sighed as the trembling 'house-elf' put down the plate on the table, his stomach rumbling as he took in the smell of warm rare meat. The elf conjured a steaming mug filled with thick green liquid with a snap of its fingers, its hands shaking a little as it placed the mug in front of him. Harry put a smile on his face to put the poor little creature more at ease, but the elf flinched away as he showed his teeth. Harry pursed his lips, uncertain as how to proceed... without spooking the elf any further. He needed information, and there was nobody else in the house to squeeze.

He knew a way to get what he wanted, of course. Something in him observed the little things that betrayed the elf's composure. The creature was trying to stand still, but its hands were trembling at its sides. A small bead of sweat shined at the edge of its chin. The eyes were steady, but the pupils were a little wide. A green-blue vein in the elf's neck bobbed up and down, gently.

Something in him observed all this and knew the fear that resided behind the eyes, and something in him was eager.

He resisted the impulse to lean forward and smile, for he knew whatever this was, in him, beside his every step, was not what he was. Dumbledore's words floated back to him in the apprehensive silence.

"Names are our identities, Harry... even for a mere wizard, names can be binding... names, and all they entail - the identification of _self_."

He wasn't sure he understood it all, even though he could close his eyes now and call up every moment of that conversation as if he was living them again. But he was sure about one thing.

His name was still Harry Potter, not Dudley Dursley... and he would be damned if he was going to start bullying others to get what what he wanted.

But there were, as that something in him knew, other ways; and even though disappointment soured Harry's mouth somehow, he knew what he had to do.

"Umm... thank you. For the meal, I mean," he began. The elf started at the sound of his voice, much like it had the last time he's tried to talk with it. All the times he'd tried to talk with it, in fact. The first time when it had disappeared in the air had been a shock. Even after nearly a week in the house of a Professor who taught Potions in the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, open displays of magic were still sometimes a shock to his disbelieving mind. He shook his head again at his memories of the first night at the house. Strange as the conversation with the old man had been (he still couldn't say the old man's name, even in the privacy of his own mind, hard as he tried), the night after had been infinitely stranger.

He shook his head to clear the memories, as his skin prickled and his gut churned. The whispers were echoing in his ears still, disconnected images of blood and gore flashing through his mind, and the air felt hot and dry when he inhaled. He took a sip from the mug, gulping the thick liquid down with some effort, and grimaced at the bitter taste.

It had been so easy to become used to this life, so frighteningly easy, this life of magic and spells and elves who served as common servants. Almost as if he had been born for it.

But then again, he was. He was.

"I never got around to asking your name," he addressed the elf.

"I is Espy, Master." The elf whispered. Harry frowned at the epithet.

"You've always worked here? I mean, do you do _all_ the household jobs?"

"No, no, Master," the little creature shook its head. "I work at the school. Hogwarts. I the oldest! The Head Master told me to come work this place."

"So... you're a... worker at the school?" Harry found himself very curious. "Are you alone, or are there other... house-elves like you?"

"Oh, yes, Master! Hundreds!" Espy exclaimed with a nervous wheezing that could've been a chuckle. "Hogwarts too big for old me alone to handle!"

"Really?" Harry raised his eyebrows. "So there are your fellows working at the school, too? Who else?"

"Only us, master!" Espy looked shocked at the question, its indignation overwhelming its apparent fear of him. "Elves no allow others to clean! It is we that clean, and cook, and do work! That is only our place!"

Harry blinked. "You can't mean... all of you? You're... workers?"

"Only us, Master!" Espy bobbed its head. "No else!"

"But some of you must do something else... are you made to be servants?" Harry asked. Suddenly the magic world wasn't looking as promising as it had been an hour ago.

"Oh no, Master!" Espy shook his head vehemently in denial, the green ears flapping with some emotion. "We born for this! Bad elves forget their place- " Harry stared as the elf gave him an almost pleading look. "Espy no bad elf, Master! Espy not!"

"I know, I know, Espy," Harry tried to soothe the little creature who was looking more and more agitated by the second. "You don't have to be afraid. I know you're a good elf."

The elf mumbled a phrase, but Harry heard and frowned. "Blood _what_? What did you say, Espy?"

The elf stared at him, the big round eyes wide and intense, for what seemed to be an awfully long moment. "Blood Knights, Master," it whispered at last. "Blood Knights. They took bad elves away, when I was young." Its lips were trembling again. "I old, Master. I forget. But I remember you."

"What?" Harry snapped. An eerie sense of age was creeping up on him, of fear and dust and violence that seeped from the elf's words. He knew this, whatever this was... "What did you say? You mean you've seen me before?"

"Not you, Young Master." Espy shook its head, almost sadly. "Not you. I remember what you _are_. The Blood remembers. I remember."

The door to his room slammed open, and Harry quickly whirled round towards the door where the greasy-haired potions master now stood silently observing him. A sharp 'crack' sounded behind him, and Harry twisted back, only to stare at empty air where the elf had been standing. He pressed his lips thin, angry at the wizard for the impromptu interruption but trying his best not to show it, and looked back at the man.

"You wanted something?" He asked as neutrally as he could manage. The anger was receding as abruptly as it had come, leaving nothing but uneasiness behind. Rambling as the elf had been, its words still had triggered something in his mind, some dim recollection that he could grasp if only he could think a little harder... Unnerving for someone with a near-perfect memory. Unsettling. He clenched his jaws.

Severus Snape sneered, as Harry knew from experience he was wont to whenever asked a question the wizard thought lacked sufficient merit. "The Headmaster thinks it is time for you to get your own focus," he said. "I for one would consider it a hopeless endeavour, but unfortunately he seemed quite adamant that you at least get a chance to see first-hand just how magical you are. We go in an hour. Finish your breakfast, then bathe and get ready." The man turned back, his plain black robes somehow gracefully billowing behind him even in the cramped corridor.

"Going where?" Harry called out, apprehensive even though a chance to finally get out of the house after a full week of being cooped up within without company seemed like an opportunity too good to miss. He knew enough not to trust magic.

The wizard didn't look back. "Where you would've gone last year, had you been a _wizard_, Potter. Where every first-year goes to get his wand. Ollivander's, in Diagon Alley. Be downstairs in an hour." He strode out.

#

The streets were filled with people, lights of every colour filling the air all around, white noise mingling with the smell that is unique to a city busy with the business of the night. The werewolf squinted uneasily at the swirling mass of humanity, fidgeting in the backseat of the limousine. He wasn't familiar with crowded places, by nature and instinct, and he didn't like the fact that he was making this journey again. And he didn't like his companion any further than he liked the _sheep_ who crowded the streets.

He was a hunter, _inside_ where it mattered. And too many prey disbalanced a predator's senses. The forests were where he felt truly at ease, and this modern hustle and bustle was too much for an old wolf who has seen too many moons. He didn't like this confusion, and tensed again when he remembered his destination. Crowded as this relatively small city of Bucharest was, London would be infinitely more so.

"It is the tourist season," his companion spoke softly, as if sensing his unease. "The Romanian nation encourages tourists, however much they can." Shadows hugged the vampire's face as Fenrir turned his head to look at him, cloaking every feature of the handsome face except red eyes that peered at him with seeming indifference. "Add to that the excitement for the _Târgul de fete_, or the Maiden's Fair as you would call it…"

"I'm not interested in your festivals," he growled out in his unease. He regretted the outburst instantly as the vampire grew still at the interruption, but trudged on. "I am... concerned, about what your Sire plans for us."

"It is good that you have finally found the wisdom to bow to our Father," his companion said. "It is as it should be, for are we not brothers in the Gift given to us, the Gift of tooth and claw? We are creatures of the Moon, and the Night, and the Mother favours her greatest son like she favours no other. Be not wary, Brother, for under the guidance of the House Dracul you shall know glory that you had never dreamed of."

"I don't doubt it," Fenrir said, mindful not to interrupt the vampire again. "But I _still_ don't know what He wishes to use us for."

"And is that not as it should be?" The vampire returned, a note of irritation strong in his voice. "He is your Lord now, Brother, he is the Master of us both. It is His will that we go unto the Enemy lands and destroy those that have oppressed us for centuries, have denied us our rightful heritage!"

"Sounds a lot like rote propaganda," Fenrir snapped, and he knew he had finally gone too far.

But the vampire only gave a little laugh, to his surprise. Years later, he would remember this moment as the start of a friendship that would change both of them forever.

"It has been a century since somebody had last talked to me of that," the vampire said, turning his head to better look at the werewolf. "He was my blood-son. Do you know what is done to someone who preaches against the teachings of the Holy Father of our House, Brother?"

Fenrir shook his head, aware that a verbal response was not what the vampire wanted.

"I have lived three centuries," the voice that emerged from the shadows was bitter. "I have lived through two wars with the Wizards. I have travelled far from my homeland, yes, even to see the land you roam, Fenrir – and Britain is not to my liking. I told the Holy Father that we should leave that blighted land and its blighted protectors to their own, but he in his infinite wisdom decided otherwise." A sigh, so faint that Fenrir wasn't sure he had been meant to hear it even considering his supernatural senses. "And I have known doubt, Brother... I have known the same doubt that you experience right now... I have suffered such doubt again and again. And I like you, mannerless and rude as you are, not to mention ignorant of the rules that bind our ancient society – for some reason. So let me tell you this, Brother – " Fenrir found himself leaning forward to hear better, even though there was no need in that cramped space, "what the Lord decides is to be obeyed without question and without any appearence of doubt. Whatever you think, Brother, whatever seditious thoughts plague your mind, give no indication. Opposition amuses the Lord, and bravery he sometimes finds admirable, but treachery – or what he considers as treachery – he _punishes_. And the Impaler's punishment is none like what you would find even in your worst nightmares."

"I wasn't thinking of... _treachery_, brother – I would never – I was simply trying to know if you could tell me what we are intended to _do_ – " Fenrir found his voice choking unexpectedly, and the vampire snarled.

"A plague on your withered brain!" The voice hissed like a snake, old and knowing and dangerous. "You heard him today, did you not? Did not the Lord demand your presence in his own Council?"

"Yes – "

"And you _saw_ him, Fenrir? Saw what he _is_? Heard his voice? And _still you doubt?_ Hear me – no, hear me and heed, my ignorant werewolf Brother – there is no place in the world where the night does not reach, and no place where you may evade the Lord of Night. Not even in that cursed scorpion pit where you live. Not even _Britain_ will keep you safe."

"I understand," Fenrir whispered. "I live only to do His will." To think that he'd thought of better days, had hoped for something better than what Voldemort had in mind for us, he thought. All Masters are the same, and this one might just prove to be worse than any he had ever imagined.

"And that is the only way you will continue to live," came the calm reply.

The limousine trudged on through the dense traffic, and Fenrir reflected on the impossibility of the situation. Lights were flashing all around, cars blaring their horns, people shouting and jostling each other on the sidewalks. Would anybody believe if they were told the truth – that the beautiful limousine cutting through the traffic had two supernatural creatures – a werewolf and a true vampire – in its backseat? Probably not, he thought, but then another thought accosted him. He had not believed in the rumours about this place either, had he? And yet he had come here and found – what? A Master? Somebody – or something – the extent of whose power he could not even guess?

"What punishment – " he started suddenly, and the vampire sighed.

"The unbelievers are given to the Blood Knights, which to any sane being would be a fate far worse than the final ending," he replied, "and that is perhaps more than what you should know, Fenrir. Now I suggest you stop keeping you brain as another ornament like the dagger you wear at your belt and start _thinking_. The airport is still an hour away."

They rode the rest of the way in silence, but Fenrir often looked back at the way they had come, for there were clouds in the east, and in the shape of the clouds he thought he saw the hint of a darkly smiling face.


End file.
